


Still Remains

by penguinparity



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blink And You Miss It Slash, Fluff, Fourth of July, Gen, Mostly Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1983252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguinparity/pseuds/penguinparity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, your boy,” Sam starts.<br/>“What’s Bucky done now?” Steve asks with all the airs of a long suffering sigh.  Sam knows it’s a show, but he smiles all the same.<br/>“What makes you think he’s done something?” Sam asks.<br/>“Because he’s only ‘my boy’ when he’s done something,” says Steve, even using his fingers to add appropriate airquotes.  “When he’s in your good graces, he’s Barnes, sometimes even Bucky.  But if he’s pissed you off, suddenly he’s my boy.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Remains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ifeelbetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifeelbetter/gifts).



> For [ifeelbetterer](http://ifeelbetterer.tumblr.com/), who needed some positive things to go their way. ♥

It’s Sam’s idea to have a BBQ for the 4th.  It’s been over a year since SHIELD fell and they started cutting down the remaining heads of HYDRA.  Nearly eight months since they found Bucky hunting down the same HYDRA cell they were.

“I don’t know,” says Steve when Sam broaches the idea in the kitchen that morning.  “We should really be running down the leads we got from the bunker in De Moines.”

“Those leads will still be there in two days,” Sam replies evenly.  “I think it’d be good for us to kick back and enjoy an evening off.”

“Plus it’s this jerk’s birthday,” Bucky says as he walks in from the spare bedroom he occasionally stays in.  He looks fresh out of the shower; hair pulled back, with a towel thrown over his metal shoulder.  He’s either forgotten or forgone wearing a shirt in the summer heat.  Sam sends up a silent prayer that at least Bucky bothered to put on pants today.  That had made for some startling mornings for a few memorable weeks back in January.  Sam drags his eyes away from Bucky’s exposed stomach and swallows.  He looks quickly towards Steve.

Bucky disappears occasionally, sometimes for weeks at a time. When he returns he still insistently refuses to acknowledge the third bedroom at the front of Sam’s house as his.  Steve gets distant and upset each time he disappears, but even he admits Bucky’s time here has been good for him.

“Oh, that’s right,” Sam drawls.  “Born on the 4th of July, how could I have forgotten?”  Steve, to Sam’s surprise, looks embarrassed.

“There’s no need,” Steve starts to protest, his hands coming up defensively.  Bucky comes fully into the kitchen, brushing right past where Sam’s leaning against the counter.  Sam stills cautiously when Bucky’s arm brushes his side as he walks by.  The man might be half awake and half dressed, but Sam’s fully aware that makes him no less dangerous.

“I think it’d be nice,” Bucky cuts off Steve’s objections.  “Only celebrating we got to do during the war was…”  Bucky trails off uncertainly for a moment.  Steve waits silently, by this point he knows better than to try and fill in the gaps.  “Anyway, it’d be nice.”

Bucky turns away and opens the fridge to pull out some juice.  He has the open jug halfway to his mouth before he catches Sam’s annoyed expression.  Wordlessly he sets the container on the counter and opens a cabinet for a glass.  Sam can’t see Bucky’s expression, but he can read the tensing of his shoulders when Bucky opens two different cabinets and encounters first plates and then bowls.  Sam’s on the verge of telling him the glasses are on the other side of the sink when Bucky shrugs and grabs a shallow soup bowl.  He pours himself some juice and returns the jug to the fridge.  He turns around and sips from the bowl nonchalantly, his expression daring anyone to comment.  Sam can’t be bothered to hide his fond smile.

“Okay, Buck.  Let’s have a BBQ,” says Steve.  Sam looks over and sees the same fondness mirrored in Steve’s face.  Bucky just smirks and slurps loudly at his juice.

 

* * *

 

Natasha’s finally back in town, faint smile carefully back in place.  So Sam invites her.  Natasha brings something she calls Russian Apple Pie; she also brings Clint.  To Sam he seems a man uncomfortable in his own skin.  Clint brings an entire cooler full of beer, so it puts Sam in a forgiving mood.

“Шарлотка?” asks Bucky when he spots the cake Natasha’s just placed on the table.  His Russian is fluid, flowing out of his mouth without hesitation.

Natasha looks at him for a split second too long before asking, “ты это знаешь?”  Bucky stares are her blankly before blinking, his whole body shuddering with it.

“I…no, I don’t think so.” Bucky sounds uncertain, his voice stilted.  He glances down at his metal hand, watches at it slowly unclenches from a fist.  Natasha nods, almost as if confirming something to herself.  She shares a glance with Clint that Sam can’t parse.

“It’s Sharlotka, Russian apple cake.  This particular recipe is one,” she hesitates for a moment before continuing, “I got off google.  My grandmother used to make it but I never learned how.”  Bucky looks back up at her; his smile small and genuine.  Natasha smiles back.  Sam doesn’t think he’s ever seen her smile like quite like that.  He’s seen her devastate people; he’s seen her lost.  He’s not sure he’s ever seen her try and reassure someone with just a simple smile.

“Good to see you again, Barnes,” Clint says.  He telegraphs his movements pretty loudly; moving to clap a hand on Bucky’s good shoulder.  Sam tenses in apprehension.  Those first few months, when it had been more the Winter Soldier than Bucky that lived with them, Sam and Steve had learned the hard way not to initiate physical contact.  So Sam watches with no shortage of surprise when Bucky simply grins and grasps Clint’s other hand and draws him into a quick embrace.

“Right, I’ll leave you all to catch up on your Russian cooking or spycraft or whatever it is you’ve been getting up to,” Sam says feeling a little foolish for having missed this.  He hightails it out of the kitchen and into the backyard where Steve has been dutifully manning the grill.

“So, your boy,” Sam starts.  He throws himself down into one of the nice lawn chairs he’d bought a few years back after buying the house so he can watch Steve and the back door simultaneously.

“What’s Bucky done now?” Steve asks with all the airs of a long suffering sigh.  Sam knows it’s a show, but he smiles all the same.

“What makes you think he’s done something?” Sam asks.  He tilts his head to look at Steve considering.

“Because he’s only ‘my boy’ when he’s done something,” says Steve, even using his fingers to add appropriate airquotes.  “When he’s in your good graces, he’s Barnes, sometimes even Bucky.  But if he’s pissed you off, suddenly he’s my boy.”

“That’s a fair point, I’ll give you that.  But I think I might have a lead on at least some of what he’s doing when he keeps disappearing on us,” Sam says.  Steve stops paying attention to the grill and turns to stare at Sam.  “Pretty sure he’s running some kind of side ops with Natasha and Clint.  At least, if the level of friendliness I just observed in there is anything to go by.  Either that or they’ve all secretly joined a Tuesday night Pub trivia team.”

“Well, he’d be terrible at trivia, so that’s not likely,” Steve says seriously.  Sam laughs.

“My thinking exactly.” Sam lets Steve think that over for several minutes in silence.

“So when he disappeared back in March for two weeks and showed back up with broken ribs and what I could only guess were several barely healed gunshot wounds,” Steve says eventually, his expression dark.

“He actually had someone watching his back.  So it could have been way worse,” Sam replies.  Steve blows out a slow breath and turns back to the grill, his expression still grim.

“That’s good to know,” Steve says evenly.

“Yeah, you sound like you’re ready to throw a parade,” Sam agrees.  He can see Natasha faintly through the kitchen window watching them.  No point in telegraphing the nature of their conversation to the rest of the party, so he kicks his legs out and stretches out in the sun.

“I just,” starts Steve.  He pauses to flip the burgers as he gathers his thoughts.  “I don’t understand why he doesn’t want us watching his back.”

“You,” Sam corrects softly.  “You don’t understand why he doesn’t want _you_ watching his back.  Let’s be honest here.  When it comes to him, I’m chopped liver in this particular equation.”  Steve huffs out a soft sound of annoyance, like he’s about to object.  “But that’s something you’re going to have to ask him.”

“Boys,” Natasha declares loudly as she exits the back of the house with a bag of marshmallows and her two ex-spies in tow.  “I like my meat rare, so you better not burn those burgers.”

“Why does that not surprise me at all?” Sam asks rhetorically as he leans back in his chair.  Natasha chucks a marshmallow at him in retaliation.

 

* * *

 

They’ve all stuffed themselves into near coma states by the time the fireworks start.  Even the two supersoldiers have managed to eat so much food that they’d groaned and pushed away their plates.  Sam’s cracked enough jokes about Natasha’s preferences for rare meat that he’s now collected a tidy pile of marshmallows he fully intends to roast later.  They’ve settled in, enjoying their limited view of the fireworks from his backyard when Sam notices they’re a man down.

“Getting some more beer,” he says to the rest of them as he heads back into the house. 

“Yay, beer,” Clint cheers lazily from his sprawled position on the chair next to Natasha’s.

The interior of the house is dark, they’ve been outside for long enough no one bothered to turn on any lights.  The bombastic explosion of the fireworks is only barely dulled inside with flashes from the fireworks lighting up the front of the house faintly every few seconds.  Sam notices the gaping black space of the open doorway to his bedroom immediately.  Growing up with two younger sisters, he never quite got out of the habit of always making sure his bedroom door was always shut.  He moves slowly towards it deliberately making noise.

“Bucky?” Sam asks as he walks cautiously through the doorway.  He can just make out a dark shape huddled on his bed in the gloom.  The figure jerks, starts to move.

“Sorry,” Bucky says.  “I just needed a minute.”  He stands up quickly.  Sam can’t see clearly in the darkness, not after the intense bursts of the fireworks outside, but he can definitely make out the tense set of Bucky’s shoulders.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Sam says.  Without thinking he reaches out a placating hand to show Bucky it’s fine; that he can stay.  Realization washes over him at what he’s just tried but before he can jerk his hand back, cold metal fingers wrap around his wrist.

“Thank you,” Bucky says softy.  Emboldened by this progress, Sam pulls Bucky back to sit back down on the bed next to him.

“So this is new,” he offers.  Sam grins into the darkness when Bucky laughs hollowly but doesn’t pull away.   Tentatively, he pulls away the metal fingers loosely circling his wrist and lets them fall into his waiting palm.

“Yeah, Tasha and Clint, they’ve been helping me remember how to let people touch me without wanting to kill them,” Bucky says dryly into the darkness.  “People touch me and I don’t stab them.  Such progress, soon I’ll be a model citizen.”  The hand cradled in Sam’s clenches softly at the admission. 

“People, huh?” Sam muses, adopting just a hint of affront.

“You know you’re not just people, Sam,” Bucky says seriously.  Sam leans into Bucky’s shoulder, offering what comfort he can.

“Do you know what one of the great ironies of this holiday is?” Sam asks eventually.  “A lot of vets can’t handle the sound of fireworks.”  Sam’s bedroom is on the south side of his house, facing away from the fireworks.  His house is old, built in the 1930s during the redevelopment of Hillcrest, so the soundproofing is terrible.  Even here, at the back of the house, the repetitive booming is quite loud.

“Gunfire has never bothered me,” says Bucky with a bitter laugh.  “I was a sniper before Zola turned me into this.”  His metal hand clenches around Sam’s before uncurling deliberately.  Sam reaches over and covers their hands with his other hand; their fingers tangling together even further.  Sam feels more than sees Bucky lean over and press his forehead gently into Sam’s shoulder in the darkness.

“We’re still not entirely sure how the technology worked, when they’d wipe my memory.  But one of the first things I remembered…one of the only things that stuck with me every time, was the bright flashes of light as machine started to erase me,” Bucky mumbles quietly into his shoulder.  Sam sucks in a slow breath to keep himself from tensing up; he doesn’t think getting angry will help Bucky right now.  He’s got a sledgehammer and an old bedframe in the garage that needs to be broken apart; maybe they’ll work on that tomorrow.

“How about we stay here until they’re done then?” Sam offers.  He gently pulls his hand out of Bucky’s grasp so he can wrap it around Bucky’s shoulders.   “The fireworks we can actually see should be done within a few minutes, the rest of the stuff going off is just assholes making noise.”  Bucky nods silently into his shoulder.  They sit there for few minutes in the relative silence, as the show outside reaches its crescendo.  Sam just runs his hand up and down along Bucky’s back when he notices the faint tremors wracking Bucky’s frame.

“So we’re definitely not taking you to any raves then,” Sam says after a long pause.  He smiles into the darkness when Bucky chokes on a laugh and punches his leg lightly.  “That’s some heavy shit to carry on your own, man.  You know you don’t have to bear it on your own, right?”

“Oh great, is this where you give me a speech about making peace with my inner demons and try to get me to come to meetings?” Bucky asks dryly.  He doesn’t pull away from Sam though.  Sam can’t help it, he laughs.

“I wasn’t planning on it, but if you really wanted to, I’m sure we could work some of that in.  I just figured I’d give you fair warning.  You’re definitely going to have an awkward conversation with Steve about seeing other super-spy-agent-whatever teams on the side.  He definitely thinks you’ve been cheating on us. Him.”

Bucky pulls himself away from Sam’s shoulder in the darkness, putting a small but vast distance between them.  When he finally speaks, his voice is even, measured, “and what do you think?”

Sam considers his answer and the dark silhouette next to him.  It’d be easy to give a glib answer, but he knows Bucky is sincerely asking. “They’ve been good for you.  Whatever you guys have been doing, it’s helping.  I just wish you’d talk to us about it.  I’m not asking for mission briefs or shit like that, but you’ve been living here, with us.  And when you show up covered in day’s old blood, looking like a cornered animal; in those moments sometimes it’s hard to see the bigger picture of how it’s helping you.”

“That was one time,” protests Bucky.

“Three times,” Sam says.  “It was three times.”  The silhouette beside him bobs in silent acquiescence. “And you have to talk to Steve about it.  He thinks you don’t want him watching your back or I don’t even know what.  I’m not being your go between but I can feel him developing a complex from here.”

Bucky’s huffing laugh is barely a whisper as his dark form curls up on the bed.  “Yeah, sounds just like Steve.”  He’s about to say more, but is interrupted by a huge yawn.

“Hey, why don’t you stay here tonight?” Sam suggests.  He’d like to claim it’s a whim, but he’s been thinking about how to bring it up since he found Bucky sitting in here.  He cautiously reaches out and places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder again.

“Unless you were planning on kicking me out onto the street, I was kind of assuming that was already the plan, boss,” Bucky said with faint amusement.

“Nah, I mean, stay in my room tonight.  It’s darker in here, since it’s at the back of the house and facing towards the edge of the city.”  Sam stands and stretches.  His eyes have mostly adjusted to the darkness of his room, so he’s fairly certain Bucky tilts his head to stare openly at him.

“And where are you going to sleep? Gonna keep me warm?” Bucky asks archly. 

“Got a perfectly functional guest room that someone keeps insisting isn’t theirs.”  Sam smiles down at him.

Bucky starts to stand when Sam heads towards the door.  Sam pauses in the doorway and looks back into the blackness of his room.  “You can stay right here if you want.  Shit like this, it can take a lot out of you.  Everyone here knows that.”

“What will you tell them?” Bucky asks quietly as he sinks back onto the bed.  Sam hears his implicit request loud and clear.  Bucky might be capable of taking down an entire HYDRA nest on his own; hell Sam would put even money on Bucky taking on the entirety of SHIELD.  But Sam’s coming to suspect Bucky will drag himself bruised and bloody into a corner before he lets himself look weak in front of Steve.

“I’ll think of something, I’m smart like that,” Sam assures him.  Bucky’s muttered _thanks, Sam_ floats through the darkness as Sam walks back into the living room.  He grabs several bottles of beer from the fridge, pausing for a second to enjoy the cool refrigerated air.  Sam exits his house to find someone’s drug the small barbecue over into the center of their small ring of chairs; the glowing embers of the last charcoal casting the group in orange relief.

Steve’s look is openly needy and questioning, not at all subtle, when Sam plops himself back down in his chair.  Sam casually tosses him a beer and sets the rest down, pointedly not looking back towards his house where Steve’s gaze keeps slipping.  He’d bet dollars to donuts one of those windows has an extra shadow it didn’t have five minutes earlier.

“He said he needed his beauty sleep and I gotta tell you, Steve,” Sam trails off with a smile.  Sam’s seen the two them trade enough insults to know how to set this particular joke up. 

“He’ll need as much as he can get, with that ugly mug,” replies Steve.  He smiles tightly but his eyes stop darting back towards the house.  Steve picks up a skewer and pushes a marshmallow into the end before propping it on the edge of the barbecue.

“Hey, can I have another beer?” Clint asks.

“Sure, man,” says Sam.  He leans over the arm of his chair to grab a beer and that’s when he notices.  His carefully procured stash of marshmallows has been raided, with a single malformed and dirty one left behind.  Sam’s head whips back up and he eyes Natasha and Clint suspiciously.

“You’d both make terrible spies,” she says flatly.

“Good thing we’re not spies then,” Steve says wryly. He reaches out to rotate his marshmallow and leans back again.

“Amen to that,” Sam agrees.  “Now who stole my rightfully earned marshmallows?”

“You capitalists and your desire to own things.”  Natasha rolls her eyes and props her feet up in Clint’s lap.

“Not really convincing me of your innocence here,” Sam says with mock affront.

“If I agree the beer is a public good that I have contributed to the community through my own labor, can I please get another one?” Clint asks, one hand stroking down over Natasha’s bare feet.  Natasha smiles over towards Clint and reaches behind her to pull out no less than 3 different skewers, with well over a dozen marshmallows speared between them.

“Sorry,” says Natasha, not sounding even remotely apologetic.  “I had to reclaim them all for public safety.”  She flicks the skewers so they sit between each of her fingers and holds them over the embers.

“Public safety?” Sam asks incredulously.  There’s a soft snort from his right and Sam’s gaze slides slowly back over towards Steve; who’s holding his sides trying not to laugh.  Steve quickly loses the battle and his laugher busts out of him in heaving waves.  Before Sam knows what’s going on, all three of them are laughing their asses off.  He smiles, content with being left out of the joke because it’s been weeks since he’s seen Steve laugh like that.  Sam passes a beer over to Clint, eventually.

“Clint nearly,” Steve finally manages.  He has to stop to take a breath and wipe at his eyes.  “Clint nearly set himself on fire earlier trying to roast a marshmallow.”  He barely gets it out before he’s laughing again and this time Sam’s laughing with him. 

“Hey, maybe I like them a little burnt,” Clint tries to object.  He smiles and drinks his beer when Sam laughs even harder.

“Now you see why I had to reclaim all of the marshmallows,” Natasha says seriously, “For safety.”

“So why did he get to keep his?” Sam asks, gesturing towards Steve and his now perfectly golden marshmallow.  Steve carefully pulls the crunchy gooey mass off his skewer and pops it into his mouth.

“Because I trust Steve,” Natasha says with a slight smile.  Steve’s gooey smile back is huge.  Sam knows he’s missing something there, but from the mildly suspicious look on Clint’s face he’s not the only one.

“I never did get a marshmallow, you threw mine into the fire,” Clint says as he leans back into his chair.  Whatever Clint’s going for, his distraction works and Natasha turns to eye him archly.

“Things that are already on fire go into the fire pit,” Natasha says sweetly, sarcasm dripping from her tone.  “Here.”  She pulls one of the skewers off the grill and hand feeds several of the marshmallows to Clint.  Steve just rolls his eyes when Sam looks over at him like _are you seeing this shit?_

Sam notices how Natasha’s still holding the other two skewers over the barbecue like weapons, her head tilted so all of them are within sight even if she appears to be only looking at Clint.  Without looking, Natasha rotates the skewers in her hand and feeds Clint another marshmallow.

There’s something about the way her attention is so seamlessly divided, and yet nothing particular she’s doing that Sam can point to, that screams performance.  He doesn’t think Natasha’s trying to play them, maybe she’s just trying to have a little fun at their expense.  Who knows what spies do to kick back and relax.  Sam certainly doesn’t.  Or perhaps she’s trying to provoke a reaction from them and that thought makes Sam sit back in his chair with a thoughtful grunt.

It’d been on the tip of his tongue to make a joke.  To ask if this is how they’re helping acclimate Bucky, by being so disgustingly smarmy that he becomes desensitized to the mundaneness of people.  A terrible idea, for obvious reasons.  Steve still needs to talk to Bucky.  Sam had promised Bucky he wouldn’t go gossiping and here he was about to make a joke of it.  He sets his beer down, that was probably enough drinking for the evening.

Natasha curls back up into her own seat and gathers the last two skewers of marshmallows close like they’re precious treasure.  She watches Sam speculatively as she plucks several of the golden globs apart.

“Not bad,” she says as she pops one into her mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello darkness, my old friend  
> I've come to talk with you again  
> Because a vision softly creeping  
> Left its seeds while I was sleeping  
> And the vision that was planted in my brain  
> Still remains  
> \- Sounds of Silence, Simon & Garfunkel
> 
> I'm a terrible person, yes, I'm aware.


End file.
